Kaikua'ana (Brother)
by praemonitus praemunitus
Summary: A figment of my overstressed imagination. No plot but plenty of whump. Rated T for some violence and swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Please, please, please, don't hate me for this one. This is exactly what happens when I find myself overstressed from work and kid-related stuff. This is how my brain reacts - it throws out these twisted Steve-whumping plots and has me obsess over them until I write them down. It's my own version of stress therapy, I suppose.**

**Again, my apologies. I haven't had a chance to work on the other two stories yet. This is the first night I had free, and here I am engaging in a stress-relieving session. **

**There's no plot. There's only whump. But this is also the first time I tried my hand at present-tense narration. It seemed to fit here, for whatever reason. I would like to know what you, guys, think, though.**

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><p>With every firefight, with every hostage situation it's the "what ifs" that haunt him. What if he had been faster, smarter, luckier? Would it have helped those around him? Would it have helped save the ones he failed?<p>

What if today he had been the one to take the left corridor instead of moving through to the right? What if he had been the one to go through that door instead of Danny?

_What if...?_

"Drop the gun, copper, or I put another bullet in this one!"

He runs back when he hears the gunshot, skidding to a frantic stop at the threshold of a debris-cluttered room. His weapon is raised and pointed at the two entangled silhouettes backed up against the opposite wall, and he is trying very hard to keep his aim steady despite the fact that one of them is Danny.

The light in the room is dim, but it's enough that he can still see the paleness of Danny's skin, the contrast it makes against the sickeningly bright trail of blood oozing steadily from an angry red graze above his temple. He looks dazed, unsteady on his feet, as the Samoan hiding behind him wraps his tattooed arm tighter around his throat in an effort to keep his impromptu shield upright.

"Drop it!" the man repeats, his gun hand digging deep into the side of Danny's face, making the latter wince.

And, dammit, the backup is too far away, and this is _Danny_. Still he persists, eyes narrowing on the bobbing dark-haired head partially concealed by his partner's, trying to gauge if he can make the shot.

The retort of a gun is loud in the small space, deafening, and Steve flinches at the unexpectedness of it. But it is Danny his attention is drawn to. _Danny_, who is listing to the side now, his face pinched in pain.

"Son of a bitch!" Danny cries out, arms grabbing ineffectually for the profusely bleeding hole in his thigh. The Samoan grabs him tighter, the gun once again pointing at his temple, as he growls out, "You got two seconds, copper, before I put another one in him. Drop it. NOW."

Steve's jaw clenches in helpless anger. A "what if" flickers across his consciousness. Maybe he can make that shot after all? But Danny is pasty white now, and he cannot afford to wait any longer. The gun clatters to the floor, and Danny is shooting daggers at him, struggling in his assailant's grip. But he knows he's doing the right thing here. Because there's no other choice. Because he can't risk it.

"He needs medical attention," he says firmly, arms wide in a show of surrender. "I did as you asked. Let him go."

The Samoan smirks in response, pulling his sagging captive higher, and Steve's eyes are once again drawn to Danny's face, and he watches in powerless concern, as his partner closes his eyes, trembling with pain and weakness.

"Lose the vest." The new command takes him by surprise, and he frowns in confusion until he notices the almost feral glint in the Samoan's eyes. The man's intentions are clear, as is the conspicuous absence of noise from the outside. Their backup is still not here, and it looks like they are running out of time.

"Now, copper," the Samoan pushes, pointing the gun at Danny's back now, fingers tightening on the trigger. "Unless you want me to turn your friend here into a fucking sieve."

He swallows, licking the lips that are suddenly too damn dry.

"D... d-don't even... th-think about it, McGarrett...," Danny gasps out, still trying to struggle feebly against the arm that holds him in a viselike grip.

But he's already made his decision, and there are no more "what ifs" to consider. He reaches for the top of his vest, tearing open the velcro with a sharp, determined jerk. The vest slides off, and he lets it drop to the ground, the dull sound of it hitting the floor is like a gavel slamming down to seal his fate.

The gunman smiles predatorily, but Steve's not paying him any heed. He knows what's coming next, and he doesn't need this to be the last thing he sees. He focuses on Danny instead, holding on to the intense, furious gaze of the pale blue eyes.

The weapon barks angrily, and he smiles at his partner in the millisecond it takes the bullet to reach him. There's a sharp ripping pain in his chest, and he feels himself falling, even as Danny's expression twists into one of fear before disappearing from view.

Picture and sound fade out all around him like in an old tube TV, and for a moment his world is filled with nothing but gray static and the violent frenzied beating of his own heart. But soon the rapidly pulsating beat begins to slow down, and bone-deep lead-like heaviness settles in his body.

Bits of sounds filter through. Disjointed words, sharp patchy wails of police sirens.

He thinks he can feel someone's hands on him, someone touching his face. He desperately wants to know if it is Danny, wants to see for himself if what he did this time was right, if his actions had kept his friend safe. But his eyelids are too heavy and he cannot find the strength to lift them. And as even those sensations begin to crumple away into the encroaching darkness, he realizes with a pang of regret that this is one "what if" he'll never get an answer to.

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><p><strong>Uhm, so before you yell at me, this is not the end, nor is this a deathfic. I had this idea for a couple of POV shots. One from Steve's view, one from Danny's. They will not be POVs of the same scene, but the second one might reference the above incident in passing. Basically, though, they will be two unrelated, plotless excuses for whump and angst.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N You, guys, are amazing! Absolutely amazing! I have gotten so many hits, so many reviews, follows, faves. I am so SO grateful to you! Thank you! I will try to write back when I can, but I'm not always able to respond to all the reviews. Please, know that I appreciate them greatly!**

**Here's the second POV. An unrelated case with some flashback, as promised. This was the second plotless plot my brain threw out at me after the week I had :) Let me know your thoughts.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Steve's sitting across from him, slumped forward in a metal chair, arms straining against the cuffs behind the chair's back that hold him roughly in place – probably the only thing right now that keeps him from falling.

Danny's in the same predicament, except that somehow he's faring a little better. Their "interrogation" on the whereabouts of the prosecution's chief witness against one Hector Wu, your friendly neighborhood smuggler and drug dealer, had been going on for hours. They are both tired, and beaten and bruised. But it is Steve their two abductors have focused most of their attention on.

They had their reasons. Not the least of which was that Steve, the SuperSEAL, managed to break the nose of one of them and likely ensured that the other will leave this world childless (not something Danny found objectionable given the circumstances), all while fighting the effects of whatever sedative the two have shot them with as part of their abduction scheme. So, yeah, they had their own axe to grind where Steve was concerned, and once they had him strapped in a chair and awake, they vented to their heart's content, ignoring Danny's growled out threats.

McGarrett's unconscious again, and the two goons finally leave the room – to ice their bruised knuckles and egos? to consult their boss? – Danny doesn't really care, he's just grateful for the brief respite.

He uses that time to study his partner. To say Steve doesn't look good is an understatement if there ever was one. There's a wicked looking cut above his right eyebrow – an aftereffect of a brass-knuckled hit that split the skin there almost all the way to his temple. The eye below it is swollen shut, and there's a deep dark bruise blooming along his cheekbone. His lip is split, and the thin stream of blood from the cut is mixing morbidly with a much thicker flow dripping down the side of his face.

His shirt is ripped, and Danny can see bruises forming on his chest as well, welts of broken skin and smears of blood. But it is an older scar – a small round mark about a palm's width below Steve's collarbone to the left of his breastbone – that draws Danny's attention.

He blinks and he is back at that warehouse all those months ago, and Steve is standing before him - eyes dark with anger and worry. Until they're not. Until there's nothing but resignation and calm acceptance in the gaze that meets his. He wants to scream at him, to grab the stupid bastard by the front of his shirt and shake some modicum of sense into that Navy-screwed skull of his. But he can't – the sweaty tattooed arm at his throat holds him too tight, and his voice gives out before it has a chance to break free. Steve seems to understand him, though, and there's a slight smile on his lips – one of apology and regret, just as his would-be executioner decides that their time is up.

He blinks again, and he sees himself kneeling over his downed friend, blood from his own leg wound mixing freely with the growing puddle underneath Steve's body. Feels the sticky warm liquid oozing in-between his trembling fingers that clamp desperately over the gaping hole in his friend's chest. Hears the agitated voices of their long-awaited backup outside and the terrified quiver in his own hoarse pleas for help.

"Danny."

His friend's raspy voice brings him out of the morbid abyss of memories, and he looks up to find Steve watching him blearily from across the room. He isn't tracking well, and Danny's willing to bet that the SEAL is at the very least concussed. But he's happy to see him awake on his own, instead of having to be doused with a bucket of ice-cold water, as it had happened the last few times.

"Y'all right?"

The words are soft and genuine, but they piss Danny off to no end. Yes, he's gotten his own share of punches, and his face probably does look like Picasso's personal paint palette, but Steve damn well knows he's been goading the two goons from the get-go, trying his annoying self-sacrificing best to keep their attention and knuckle dusters on his own self. So the son of a bitch has got no right to worry about him now, and Danny is about to say so, but the door to their makeshift prison is banged open at that very moment, and he slams his mouth shut.

The two thugs are back, and they are dragging a big-ass metal tub, filled with water that splashes over the rims with every jerk and push. Danny can guess the purpose of it, and his chest tightens a bit despite himself.

They set the tub in the space between him and Steve, smack dab in the middle – to give each of them a perfect unobstructed view, and then they straighten out, smirking at the two of them with undisguised glee.

"Which one of you, brave gentlemen, would like to go first?" The mocking trills of the question haven't even died down, when they get their response.

"Me."

Steve looks and sounds perfectly calm, as though they were asking him to volunteer for help with Grace's school project instead of having his head dunked into a tub full of icy water.

Danny protests, loudly, but all that gets him is a vicious backhand and a jeering promise to let him go next.

Danny knows what Steve is doing. By his rough calculations they have missed their check-in time from the surveillance on Hector Wu's place by at least an hour, and, knowing their teammates, their forcibly abandoned car has already been processed along with tranq darts and blood stains (courtesy of Steve). Which meant Chin and Kono (and likely most of HPD) are already combing through the island in search of them. So all they need to do now is bide their time. And Steve, the SEAL, is seemingly banking on the fact that he can hold out longer under water and likely spare him, Danny, altogether.

He's probably right, and not that Danny doesn't appreciate the sentiment, but the thing ... the _**devil**_of it is that he worries about his partner. More than he cares to admit. And he knows Steve's strong, but he's not invincible. He's proven that unfortunate fact several times over, and Danny still shudders when he thinks how close his friend had come to dying during that botched warehouse raid.

So he can't help the way his whole body tenses, when Steve is pulled out of his chair with his hands recuffed behind his back. Can't help the way his heart shudders, when the SEAL is pushed unceremoniously onto his knees and his head is forced roughly under the water.

They pull him out, and he hears him heave a relieved breath of air before he's shoved back under again. The process repeats. Over and over, and over again. Until they grow tired of his stubborn refusal to panic, to thrash wildly against the icy liquid, to gag, to sputter, to plead. And so they cheat. They let him gulp in air, and then, as his face is pushed under water, one of them slams a brass-knuckled fist under his ribcage – a vicious, breath-robbing blow.

The ruse works, and he can see Steve's body tense, as he tries desperately to hold on to the air in his lungs. They hit him again, just to be certain, and in that moment Steve's struggle is lost. His body shudders, and he begins to fight against the hands holding him down, as the survival instinct takes over.

But the goons are too caught up in the depraved joy of finally getting the reaction they want, and they shove him deeper still, paying no heed to Danny's desperate screams for them to stop.

When they finally do stop, it's only because they notice that their captive is no longer struggling against them, and they give each other a confused and somewhat worried look before pulling Steve's water-logged upper body out of the tub and dropping him onto the floor. He's not moving. And from what Danny can see, he's not breathing either. Panic twists his insides harder than a hangman's noose, and for a moment all he can do is gulp mutely like a beached fish, as his breath feels wedged painfully in his throat.

But then his horror-numbed brain comes back online, and he forces his mouth to work, and he pleads. He pleads, swallowing harshly against a throat that is already raw from screaming. He begs for them to let him out, to let him help.

The goons seem to be just as stunned by this turn of events, and if Danny weren't so desperate, he would have laughed at the near-comical expressions of startled bewilderment on their faces. Apparently the big bad boss wanted them to keep their captives alive, and Danny should count that as a good thing, but the two seem too stunned to do what's needed right now, and they are losing precious time. When one of them nudges Steve with the toe of his boot, as though hoping that this would somehow rouse the drowned man, Danny has to grind his teeth to keep himself from snapping. He cannot afford to make things worse now. He needs their help. So he begs again. Louder. Promising them that he would talk to Steve, that he would try to convince him to give up the witness's location (even though he knows perfectly well that the promise is a crock of bull).

It is a miracle, but they finally concede. And the moment he feels his cuffs snap off, he staggers forward, dropping to his knees on the slippery wet floor next to Steve. His hands are on Steve's chest, pressing roughly, desperately, even as his mind flashes back to that damn warehouse. The wetness underneath his palms this time is not blood, but it helps little to ease his mind, because Steve is still unresponsive, still unmoving, still... dead.

He breaks the rhythm, tilts his friend's head back, pinches his nose with one hand, opening Steve's mouth with the other. Then he locks his own mouth over the cold, blue-tinged lips, and he blows. Once, twice, watching the chest rise and fall with each forced breath. He switches to chest compressions again, blinking sweat and tears out of his eyes, as he silently pleads with his stubborn partner to respond.

He doesn't care that the goons are standing behind him, watching his every move. They might as well drop dead now, because once he gets Steve breathing (and he will, he _**will**_, dammit), they are dead anyway. He'll make sure of that.

Few seconds later he is rewarded with a gargled gasp, and he reacts instantly, pushing Steve onto his side, while his friend retches miserably, bringing up stale water and leftovers of their stakeout breakfast. He's dizzy with relief, trembling probably as much as Steve is – the adrenaline is pumping through his veins and he can't sit still, he needs to do something, he needs...

He sees the half-hooded blue eyes blink sluggishly up at him, and the hand clutching Steve's shoulder tightens, and then he's pulling him roughly up and off the floor, wrapping him into a desperate, bone-crushing hug, heedless of the wetness that is now soaking into his own shirt.

"I can't lose you, you stupid son-of-a-bitch," he professes hotly into the wet hair, as his partner stiffens momentarily before relaxing against him. "I already lost one brother, you understand? I cannot afford to lose another. Not you. I can't..."

His voice betrays him, and he bites his trembling bottom lip, swallowing the traitorous tears. He feels a slight nod against his chest, the tickle of Steve's breath as he manages a gasped out "sorry".

There's suddenly movement around them. The goons are running for the door. And he wonders dimly about it, until he hears the echoes of gunshots, the familiar, welcome shouts of "Five-0". He tightens his arms around Steve for one last time and warns him to stay put. Not that Steve really has a choice in the matter – he's still too dazed, too weak, his hands still cuffed roughly behind his back. He releases him gently, settling him carefully with his back against the tub, and then rises off the floor, determined to head after their escaping captors. Because they almost took away his family. His brother. And no. Just... _**no**_. Not again. He's made a promise to himself. And he's damn sure going to keep it.

"Don't...," Steve's quiet, strained voice stops him dead in his tracks, and he hesitates, glancing down at his friend.

Steve's dripping wet and shivering, the washed out traces of blood giving his already pallid face a sickly spectral hue. But the gaze that meets his is clear and bright and burning in its intensity.

They can read other like a book, and Steve knows what Danny is planning to do just as clearly as Danny knows Steve's reason for stopping him. Because Steve's seen the aftermath of Reyes's murder, what it's done to him, the soul-wrenching emotional wringer it had put him through. Because Steve was there, when, during the plane ride back, Danny woke up in cold sweat with Reyes's sightless eyes staring back at him in the semi-darkness of the salon and the echo of the gunshot ringing in his ears.

Because...

"It's not worth it, Danny. Please..." And just like that his anger melts away in the face of this quiet plea. Danny nods wearily, conceding the point, and slides slowly back down to the floor to sit next to Steve. He wraps his arm around his friend's shivering form, pulling him closer, as they wait for their rescue to reach them. And if he's holding Steve just a little tighter than necessary, Steve doesn't say a word. And neither does Danny.

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><p><strong>The end<strong>

**Well, that's it. Now, I'm gonna go back to my two unfinished stories - as soon as I have the time :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N A few of you asked for more similar plotless whump stories, and I said that I might consider revisiting the "Brothers" for some other plotless plots, if any such happen to invade my brain. These whumping one-shots tend to visit me whenever my mood plummets somewhere into the Tartarus region. Steve-whumping I find is a good therapy for when I'm feeling tired, angry, sick and/or depressed. (Sorry, Steve). **

**Well, long story short, I had a few not so good days (holidays, huh), and below is the result. **

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><p>"For the record, I'm blaming you for this," Danny huffs out breathlessly at his side, and Steve spares him a quick glance, lips tightening in worry at the sickly line of perspiration that dots the smaller man's forehead, a few errant drops of sweat trickling down to freshly dilute the thick smear of blood that covers the right side of his face.<p>

The blond's condition deteriorated considerably over the past twenty minutes that they have been limping hurriedly through the less traveled area of the Manoa Valley in a desperate attempt to cover their tracks. And Steve is now taking on more and more of his friend's weight.

A quick check of the makeshift shirt-sleeve bandage around Danny's thigh only serves to augment his worry. The material is dark, saturated with blood. The Jerseyan is not going to last long at this rate.

As if to prove his point, the smaller man chooses that exact moment to stumble heavily, nearly bringing both of them down onto the freshly rained on ground. Steve lets out a muffled curse, tightening his hold on Danny.

"Oh yeah?" he challenges, throwing a quick, sharp look back over his shoulder. Their pursuers are still some distance away, and Steve will feel more comfortable if they manage to maintain that distance for a little while longer. "How do you figure?"

Danny gives him a sideways glare, and Steve feels a little better seeing the familiar spark of righteous New Jersey ire behind a thick veil of pain and exhaustion.

"How do I... Was it not _your_ idea to hike out here?" the blond gasps out, indignation clear in his voice.

Steve can't help the tiny smile of relief that tugs at the corners of his mouth, or the very next unapologetically baiting words that come out of it. After all, if he can keep his partner riled and talking, it'll be much easier to keep him moving as well. "May I remind you that you agreed to come along on your own volition? In fact, if I remember correctly, you thought the idea was a great one."

"Great?" Danny twists sharply in his grasp in an awkward attempt to punctuate the incredulity in his voice with a forceful accompaniment of gestures. "Oh, no, no, no. I _ne-HEver_ used the word great! Unlike you, my uncouth friend, I know the meaning of words. _Ergo_ I could _never_, _WOULD_ never assign a word as weighty as 'great' to the idea of hiking with your trigger-happy ass through yet another peopleless jungle."

The rant feels good, familiar, but Danny's voice is barely audible toward the end and the smaller man begins sagging harder against him, his strength slowly but surely losing the battle with blood loss. Fervently he wishes, not for the first time, that he hadn't been so complacent earlier this morning , lulled by the false sense of security following Wo Fat's definitive demise. That he had paid more attention to the road and spotted their pursuers before they reached the nearly deserted stretch of the Pali Highway. That he had been faster in getting the dazed, concussed Danny out of their bullet-riddled car. That he had taken more than just his backup gun, which was now tucked uselessly in its holder, its clip empty.

At least he knows he had gotten a few good shots in, and there are now only three gunmen after them. Two and a half, he amends quickly, because he's pretty sure he at least wounded one other, even though he is not at all certain that his final shot was fatal. He didn't have time to check. Needed to get Danny out of there. Fast.

And they had been running ever since, stopping only once to tend to Danny's wound.

Gritting his teeth in helpless fury, Steve scans the area before them with a single, desperate purpose. Because Danny won't make it on his feet for much longer, and that means it's time to change strategies.

About a hundred yards ahead, off to their right, he finally spots what he's been looking for: the distinctive aerial roots of a sprawling banyan tree. Perfect.

He stops for a moment, listening intently to the sounds of pursuit. Judging by a flock of agitated birds that rose with a loud screech over a row of trees framing a small stream they passed about five minutes ago, they don't have much time.

Curling his fingers more securely around Danny's belt, he pulls him closer and breaks into a merciless hobbling run, trying his best to tune out the stifled grunts of pain coming from the other man.

"What's... your... hur-ry...," the Jersey native slurs out, as Steve guides him quickly over to his chosen spot.

The slurring worries him. More than he would like to admit, even to himself. He knows the blond hit his head pretty hard on the glass, when the other car rammed them, forcing them nose first into a roadside tree. And, in addition to a pretty nasty gash on the side of his head, he is, at the very least, concussed. Which makes his next step so much harder. Because he knows the danger that comes with a concussion, and he hates the idea of leaving Danny alone. But it can't be helped. Not if he wants a chance to keep his partner safe.

So he pushes the doubts aside, hardens himself for what he is about to do.

"Figured you could use a bit of a rest, Danno," he offers with forced levity, settling him down gently between the thick, tangled branches.

"Rest's... good...," the smaller man agrees wearily and leans back against the trunk, eyes sliding closed in sheer exhaustion.

Danny's pale. Alarmingly so. Breathing in heavy, feverish gasps. And Steve doesn't even have a bottle of water to give him. What he does have is his cell phone. He couldn't grab it earlier, having to use both arms to keep his barely conscious partner upright and moving. Now, though, there was time. For Danny.

Unhesitating, he pulls out his cell, places it into the blond's hand. "Here," he says, tapping one hand lightly against the other man's cheek to rouse him. "Keep as quiet as you can, but try to get a signal." He hopes the task will keep the Jersey native awake.

The pain-glazed blue eyes blink up at him in an effort to focus, narrowing in sudden suspicion. "What are you... gonna do?"

He smiles at his partner evasively. "I'll be back in a bit. You just concentrate on getting a call out."

"Steve..." Danny's voice is weak, but there's a definite note of warning in it, and the hand gripping Steve's arm is surprisingly strong.

He lays his hand on top of Danny's, squeezing it briefly for reassurance before gently untangling himself from his friend's grasp. "Stay here, Danny," he admonishes, quiet and urgent, "and stay _awake_."

And then, because he knows his time is already up, he pulls away, heavy-hearted but determined. Makes sure his brother is far enough in the shade that he cannot be spotted from the path. And leaves before Danny's hoarse, pain-filled plea to come back changes his mind.

When he is far enough away that Danny's hiding place is well obscured by other foliage, he starts making noise. Lots of it. Crashes through the thick vegetation like a wounded bear, stomping and breaking branches.

The ruse works. It isn't even a couple of minutes later that the unmistakable crack of a gunshot splits the charged air around him and the tree trunk closest to him explodes in a shower of sawdust.

"Stop!"

The command is perfectly unnecessary. He has no intention of running anymore. With his pursuers this close it would be suicide. And Steve may be lots of things, but he is not suicidal. Hands raised submissively into the air, he turns around slowly, grinning at the visibly pissed off, crippled trio that bursts onto the scene behind him.

He was right about the third goon – he winged him pretty good. The front of the guy's shirt is soaked with blood from a nasty-looking wound in his shoulder. Steve is vindictively happy to note that the goon looks like he's faring much worse than Danny and seems ready to collapse at any moment. It's virtually two to one now, the odds are shifting in his favor.

"Where's Williams?"

So it's Danny they're after. The realization takes him by surprise – he was certain this was related to Wo Fat somehow; that the monster his mother created managed to somehow strike out at him even from beyond the grave. This newest revelation should be a relief, yet he finds himself frowning with renewed concern for his partner. The guys look Hispanic, Colombian. And that can only mean...

"I asked you a question, _pendejo_!" The sharp call is followed by an unequivocal sound of a weapon cocking.

"Don't know," Steve shrugs, going for cheeky and nonchalant. " If I had to guess, I'd say he probably circled back to the road and is long gone by now, while you three idiots are out here chasing after me."

His cheekiness earns him a harsh blow across his face. He grunts, landing heavily on one knee. The son of a bitch struck him with the butt of his gun, and he can feel blood trickling down from a split brow. Carefully raising his hand, he wipes at it before it could get into his eye and glares up at his attacker.

"Williams is your partner, is he not?" the goon inquires casually, his eyes dark with menacing impatience. "You came to Colombia with him. He wouldn't abandon you like that, would he?"

If Steve had any doubts as to the kind of business these men have with Danny, they are evaporated now. _Colombia. Well, shit... _

He shrugs again, making a show of getting back up on his feet. "Maybe you're right," he acknowledges unexpectedly, his voice deceptively calm. "Maybe he's hunkered down someplace, calling for backup. Maybe there's a whole legion of SWAT cars heading this way as we speak."

Two of the other Colombians look nervous at that, anxiously scanning the forest behind them, as though expecting heavily armed policemen to jump out from there at any moment.

"What if he's telling the truth, Miguel?" the wounded one gasps worriedly. "Perhaps we should cut our losses and go."

"Not until I get what I came here for," grounds out the one he called Miguel, shoving his gun under Steve's ribs.

"And what would that be?" Steve inquires as calmly as he can, trying to hide a wince. He must have bruised his side during the crash, and the Colombian's weapon jabbed him in just the right spot.

Truth be told, he already knows the answer to this question. Knew it from the moment he realized who these people were. But he needs to stall for time, and playing stupid is the way to go.

Apparently the goon, Miguel, disagrees with that assessment, because the weapon is pushed into his side again, pressing harder, _harder_, _**harder**_.

His side is on fire, as if someone had stuck him with a white-hot iron poker twisting it slowly as they shoved it deeper and deeper inside. The pitiful gasp that tumbles past his lips cannot be helped.

Dimly he thinks there might be something more at work here than a simple bruise. But he can't dwell on that thought, because suddenly he is being forced to his knees, and the Colombian's voice hisses venomously above his ear.

"The money."

He swallows past a swell of nausea, taking a second to compose himself. A second too long, evidently. The gun is back, at his temple now, its owner's hand vibrating with impatience. Time for a new plan.

"I know ... where the money is. I can take you," he rasps, trying to sound fearful, resigned.

Miguel smiles predatorily down at him, gesturing for him to get up. He does his best to comply, dismayed to find his legs wobble reluctantly during his attempt to stand. Gritting his teeth against a new wave of nausea, he fists his hands tightly at his sides, mentally telling his body to deal with whatever this is by locking it the hell up.

For the moment it works, but he can feel inky blackness creeping in at the edges of his consciousness, ready to sink its fangs into him once more and sap his strength. Time is no longer playing on his side, and he needs to act soon. Very soon.

"Where?" The man sounds eager, and even his two fearful colleagues step up closer toward him, intrigued.

"That way." Steve points toward a hodgepodge of bright green vegetation up ahead. "There's a small creek there and a wind-fallen tree on the other side. We buried the money nearby."

He waits with bated breath, while three pairs of dark eyes bore into him, evaluating, calculating. They must find his explanation convincing, though, despite their misgivings, and Miguel waves him on.

"Go."

He does as he's told and begins walking slowly in the direction he indicated, making sure to keep his three captors less than an arm's length behind him. A large muddy patch ahead catches his eye, and he knows that this is it.

Quickly he averts his eyes, taking care not to reveal his plan. They reach the right spot and he calls their attention to a random felled tree he spots in the distance.

"It's just over there."

The desired effect is reached – his impromptu chaperones look to where he is pointing, taking their greedy, suspicious stares off him. _Now!_

He fakes a stumble and crashes heavily into the nearest body. Miguel's.

The man grunts in surprise, fighting to stay on his feet. But it had rained only a few hours ago, and trying to find purchase on the fresh squishy mud is just as futile an exercise as attempting to teach a cow to ice-skate. Despite his best efforts, Miguel's feet slide out from underneath him in the slurping mass, and the Colombian flops awkwardly onto his back.

Steve uses the man's less than grateful tumble to tear the weapon out the flailing hand. He fires with a desperate urgency of one working hopelessly against the clock.

His aim is true, and two more bodies hit the gray syrupy muck. But the element of surprise is gone, and his own feet are suddenly swept out from under him, and he goes down. Hard.

Pain, heretofore ignored, comes back with a vengeance, contorting his body into a rigid, twisted wreck. The burning in his side becomes a ferocious raging inferno, drowning out all other senses. Unconsciousness beckons, rising like the proverbial tenth wave over his head, and it's all he can do to keep those dark waters from closing over him.

Dimly he feels someone grab his arm, pulling the weapon out of his stiff, uncooperating fingers.

He can't have that. And so he rallies. Swallowing convulsively against the taste of bile in his throat, he twists his pain-racked body away from the unwelcome touch. Weak, uncoordinated limbs strike out with force borne of desperation. He hits something solid, hears a muffled grunt of pain and feels the grip around his gun hand loosen momentarily.

He doesn't hesitate. Ignoring the dizzying sway and dip of the forest around him, he locks his swimming gaze on the rage-distorted olive-skinned face above him and pulls the trigger.

H50*H50

When he blinks his eyes open the next time, he is surprised to find the setting has changed around him. The overwhelming green of the forest is no more; he is surrounded by faceless white walls. The surface underneath him isn't viscous or cold, but soothingly, comfortably soft. And now that he thinks about it, he feels comfortable too. The breath-robbing, gut-searing pain is gone, and there is a pleasant numbness filling his entire body. He welcomes the change.

"You... are an _idiot_!"

The hotly whispered words startle him, and he turns his head in the direction of the sound, wincing at the imprudent sharpness of the movement. But the little bit of pain is worth it, because there's Danny. Haggard and careworn, but alive. _Alive_. And that is all that matters.

"Don't you smile! Don't you fucking smile at me, you, empty tin can of a brain!" The blue eyes flash angrily, the pale cheeks reddening in warning of an impending rant. "You don't get to smile after the stunt you pulled! Stowing me away in an overgrown shrub like some damn damsel in distress, while you run around the jungle with a freaking bullet in your side, reenacting a shoot the moose arcade game with a bunch of trigger-happy Colombians. What the hell were you thinking?"

He swallows painfully against a dry throat, tongue flicking out to scrape ineffectually over the equally parched lips. "I didn't... know... I've been... shot," he offers eventually, surprised to hear the barely audible rasp that is his voice.

"Idiot!"

An ice chip is pushed heatedly against his lips, and he accepts it gratefully but warily. He knows Danny well enough to understand the reason behind his partner's anger. Worry. Judging by the characteristics bags of sleeplessness under the blond's eyes and the troubled crease across his forehead, he had been worried sick. Steve wonders briefly just how bad things gotten for him to make Danny worry so much. He gets his answer in the next breath.

"You almost died." Danny is quiet now, subdued. All the anger bled away, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion and raw, unfiltered concern.

A swell of reciprocal emotion tightens Steve's chest, and he nods, trying to curl his fingers around the warm hand he feels next to them.

"So did you," he explains stubbornly and is relieved to feel Danny grasp his hand gently, reciprocating his touch. "I couldn't risk... I had to..."

"I know," his partner interrupts him, giving him a smile of resigned affection.

Danny's other hand cups his cheek, and he finds himself leaning into the proffered warmth, letting his eyes drift closed within its lulling promise of safety.

"You're still an idiot. But don't you ever change." The quiet words hold no anger behind them. Nothing but warm fondness that is so perfectly, so achingly Danny that his heart sings in response, as he feels himself slip deeper into the secure slumber of healing.

* * *

><p>FIN<p> 


End file.
